A hand tapped his knee and he slid down off the fire step to face Captain Redbourne, his company commander. Redbourne’s face wore a fixed grin and he was clasping a football.
“Here, young W-B, you’ve
chubby gay boys a healthy kick on you.” He was bellowing to make himself heard
chubby gay boys. “ I want you to boot this into no-man’s-land when the whistle blows. It’ll give the boys something to chase.”
Phillip stared at him uncomprehendingly. This had to be the final proof that Redbourne was Dhoolali. Nevertheless, he took the ball and placed it on the fire step. Redbourne grinned again, patted his shoulder and roared “ Good Man!” He hurried off down the trench. Phillip watched his retreating back and shook his head slowly.
The bombardment rumbled and churned on through the night unabated. Phillip stood on the fire step and watched the explosions, his head cradled on his forearm. He dozed occasionally but proper sleep eluded him. He could feel it now: the slow but steady tightening of every nerve fibre. He felt sick. His mouth felt dry yet was filled with saliva. He wanted to spit but forced himself to swallow. His head ached abominably from the pounding drumfire and his eyes felt raw and scratchy.
Soon after dawn, the barrage rose
chubby gay boys to a final crescendo and seemed to reach a new peak of intensity. It seemed impossible that anyone could have lived through the torment
chubby gay boys. Phillip could
chubby gay boys feel the explosions through the trench wall. It was as though someone was kicking him in the
chubby gay boys chest and stomach. It grew so violent he had to pull back and drop into the bottom of the trench. White-faced Tommies stood waiting the rum issue. Every tenth man clutched a scaling ladder of crude construction. He tried to give a reassuring smile but his facial muscles were frozen. He saw the same blank, rigid expression reflected back at him from a score of faces. He pulled out his watch, alarmed at how
chubby gay boys his hands were shaking. This was the worst time of all.
Unexpectedly, the bellow of the artillery ceased. One final desultory crack echoed in the sudden calm then all was silence. Phillip
chubby gay boys heard Redbourne’s voice, a scream of fury:
“The bastards! Oh, the utter, stupid bastards! They’ve stopped too soon. There’s still ten minutes to go!”
It was true. The Tommies looked at each other with foreboding. The premature end would give the survivors time to recover. Time to get out of the surviving dugouts and man what was left of the parapets. Time to drag up the hated, deadly, machine guns. Time to call up support from the back areas, to arrange for a counter-bombardment. There was some tense muttering. Phillip sensed a crisis and called to Redbourne.
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